THE LAST GREAT INDIAN COUNCIL
Kabibonok Ka, the North Wind, came marching out of the caverns and snows of the north, whipping and driving blinding gusts of rain and sleet. Nee-ba-naw baigs, the Water Spirits, unsealed their fountains, and the turbulent waters of the Little Big Horn River rushed on, tearing out the banks along which on the plain were huddled the myriad tepees of the Indian camp. The wind in the trees roared like distant thunder. The dogs were crouching in any shelter. Horses were standing with their backs to the storm, their tails drenched and driven between their legs. The flaps of the tepees were closed, and the rawhide streamers from the poles cracked like the sharp report of a rifle. The women and children were closely huddled around the lodge fire. It was the great spring storm, the last triumphant blast of winter. Yonder in the centre of all this dripping circle of tepees stood the council lodge. Inside were gathered the great chief and his medicine men and warriors. They encircled the blazing logs, heeding little the melancholy night that kept tune with the sorrowful thoughts of their own hearts. The ashes had cooled in the bowl of the council pipe, when, at the head of the circle, Chief Plenty [pg 189] Coups, chief of all the Crow Nation, arose from his blankets, laid down his coup stick, and addressed his brothers:
“The ground on which we stand is sacred ground. It is the dust and blood of our ancestors. On these plains the Great White Father at Washington sent his soldiers armed with long knives and rifles to slay the Indian. Many of them sleep on yonder hill where Pahaska—White Chief of the Long Hair—so bravely fought and fell. A few more passing suns will see us here no more, and our dust and bones will mingle with these same prairies. I see as in a vision the dying spark of our council fires, the ashes cold and white. I see no longer the curling smoke rising from our lodge poles. I hear no longer the songs of the women as they prepare the meal. The antelope have gone; the buffalo wallows are empty. Only the wail of the coyote is heard. The white man's medicine is stronger than ours; his iron horse rushes over the buffalo trail. He talks to us through his ‘whispering spirit.’ ” (The Indian's name for the telegraph and telephone.) “We are like birds with a broken wing. My heart is cold within me. My eyes are growing dim—I am old. Before our red brothers pass on to the happy hunting ground let us bury the tomahawk. Let us break our arrows. Let us wash off our war paint in the river. And I will instruct our medicine men to tell the women to prepare a great council lodge. I will send [pg 190] our hunters into the hills and pines for deer. I will send my runners to the lodges of the Blackfeet, where in that far north flowers border the snow on the hills. I will send them across the fiery desert to the lodges of the Apaches in the south. I will send them east to the lodges of the Sioux, warriors who have met us in many a hard battle. I will send them to the west, where among the mountains dwell the Cayuse and the Umatillas. I will have the outliers build smoke signals on all the high hills, calling the chiefs of all the tribes together, that we may meet here as brothers and friends in one great last council, that we may eat our bread and meat together, and smoke the council pipe, and say farewell as brothers, never to meet again.” The storm abated. The urn of the morning seemed overturned, and the spices of a new spring day, redolent with the perfume of growing things, bright with sunshine and song of birds, flowed over the busy Indian camp. Weeks passed on. Runners came into camp, rushing into the lodge of the great chief, announcing the approach of a procession of chiefs from the north; other heralds told of a great company on the hills coming from the east, and from the west, and warrior chiefs from the south halted outside the camp. Chiefs from all the great tribes had heard the call, had seen the smoke signal, and now the plain is full of horses and gayly coloured riders as they dismount before the council lodge.
A wonderful blaze of colour meets the eye. Excitement and interest fill the air as these veterans of the plains enter the council lodge. Chief Plenty Coups then receives the chiefs; they are greeted one by one with a courtly and graceful dignity. When the council had assembled Chief Plenty Coups laid his coup stick and pipe sack on the ground, and in the sign language gave welcome to the chiefs from many lands.
“I am glad at heart to stand here to-day on this Indian ground and give a hearty welcome to all the chiefs assembled from the various tribes from all over the United States. It is a day of beauty, and bright sunshine; it is a glad day for me. I rejoice that on this happy day we can all meet here as friends, eat our bread and meat in communion, smoke the council pipe, and the pipe of peace. I am rejoiced to give you all a great heart of welcome. And then we must say farewell, but we go away as friends, never to meet again. I am glad to have you here.”
Then Chief Two Moons, the leader of the Cheyennes in the Custer fight, arose and shook hands with Chief Plenty Coups, and said:
“This is a glad day for me, and I am glad at heart that we can all meet as chiefs from the various tribes from all over the land. It is a great day for all of us, because there are no more wars between us, and we meet in peace to hold this last great [pg 192] council of the chiefs, and smoke the pipe of peace. I am glad at heart that this great picture is to be made of us, as we are assembled here, because our old chiefs are fast dying away, and our old Indian customs soon will pass out of sight, and the coming generations will not know anything about us, but this picture will cause us to live all through the years. And our children and their children will reap the benefit. I am glad we are here.”
Tottering with age, and nearly blind, Tin-Tin-Meet-Sa, head chief of the Umatilla Indians, pulled himself up on his walking-stick, took Chief Plenty Coups by the hand, and said: